“He has found a good candidate, little one. He will still be weak for weeks to come, but I don't think you should wait that long. It would have been so much easier if you had just tucked your chin, but I suppose you wouldn't be you if you had. Blackened damn, between the two of you, you'll be the death of me. I hope.”
He smiled a smile that was catharsis incarnate, all the relief in the world could barely compare. Even seeing it on the monster in front of him, he felt happy for it.
Dorian woke in the Temple of Metae, the pain throbbing in his leg said that it had been set, but no other healing had been administered. The curtain was drawn closed, thank the Gods, and he groaned as he looked down. “Always, with the pants?! Can't you people just leave my britches alone?” The extra volume he put in to the statement made his head throb.
The curtain opened, Clarice smiling broadly.
Dorian returned the smile, if a little pulled for the pain in his leg. “What's the verdict, doc?”
Her brows bent in confusion for a moment, then registering the question, she sighed. “It's not great. The large bone in your shin, it's fractured. I've set it, but the rules state you can't have healing unless you concede. Since it wasn't my decision to make, I've been waiting for you to wake up.”
“I meant my pants.” Dorian said, looking dubious.
A moment passed and her mouth dropped open just a hair. “You're not at all bothered by the leg?”
“Yes, it's a concern,” he said though only to give him time to think of a reply. “But it can't be helped. It's broken, it hurts. I have one more match before I can be healed, so I'll just have to win one match with a busted leg.” Dorian shrugged, though the sharp red hot pain was there, he could manage.
“Am I allowed anything to help with the pain?”
She gave him a dangerous glare, so he chirped up quickly. “Nothing that would affect my wits, of course.”
“Boy, if you had any to begin with, I'd still give you that look. Are you brave or stupid? It's bro-ken. What part of that don't you understand?”
“Oh, I understand all of it. Hey, how's Tender, I assume he's here.” Dorian asked, he had respect for Tender even if he was responsible for the broken leg.
“Came out better than you, loose tooth was about the worst of it. We healed him up and sent him on his way. He's likely sleeping it off right now.”
Dorian nodded, then returned to the subject. “So, something for the pain?”
“I'll make you a tea, but it should wear off before the match. How do you intend on keeping yourself up?”
“My staff broke in the last match... since I can't bring anything but my clothes and my staff to the match, maybe check the rules and see if I can use the shorter part as a splint?”
She paused a long time then, staring him over. He didn't back down, despite his desire to do so. He held her gaze, set in his conviction.
Kurt woke with an abrasive fear that he was late. He hopped out of bed, slid into his boots as fast as a jack rabbit running from wolves, and darted out the door. Judging by the sun, he wasn't late late, but damn near. He idly noted that his headache was gone, which was a blessing he didn't deserve for the evening he had the night prior.
Waving the guards away as he came to the archway leading to the arena gate, one of them shouted, “you better hurry up, lad! You've got less than ten minutes!”
“Yes, thanks, gotta go!” Kurt called back as he flew down the stairs. Half-way down, he felt something gripping him, an external emotion. Fucking Bacchus.
He was quick to warm up, though he didn't skip on certain stretches. He knew better than that, pulling a calf mid-match was a herald of doom as far as he was concerned. It wouldn't fly at this level.
Finally, as ready as he was going to be, he stood at the gates, waiting for the announcer to do what announcers do.
Dorian was seated in a surprisingly comfortable position to watch over the upcoming matches. There weren't many left for the day. He himself was going to the semifinals, though he hadn't seen much of the one he'd be pitted against. His name was Bo Smith, a wiry combatant. He was the one that played with his opponents, the one that had set Dorian in an awful mood the evening before. He hoped that his opponent had suffered a few injuries as well. Dorian knew he wouldn't be all too quick on his feet.
He had been situated, with help from Clarice, in a private spot just above where he'd be descending. She had splinted his leg as he asked and was kind enough to swap the pointed cap for the blunt one. Each bit of his staff was elongated a bit, with some help from Clarice of course. She had linewood pulp ready nearby, as she said it, “I think the staff was a bit short for you anyways, so if you show up with an extra few inches on either broken end, who's to notice?”
She was his savior, for the day at least. He could hobble well enough, though it hurt like seven hells every time he put the whole of his weight on it. It wasn't perfect, but it would do. He just had to be careful of the steel spike that now protruded most of a foot above his knee. The position of the stint was such that it sat slightly to the outside of the knee, so if a blow came for his injury he could block most of the damage, but he'd have to be careful. He'd impale himself if he let himself fold inward.
“Dorian, I'm glad to see you.” Came a rasping voice from behind him.
Turning, Dorian smiled. “Gavin, glad to see you up. How are you feeling?”
Gavin coughed once, then gingerly walked around Dorian's propped up leg, taking a nearby chair. “Oh, you know, could be worse.” He shrugged, “I could be dead.”
Dorian nodded stoically, then glanced down at the arena grounds. He was beginning to announce the first person of the match, someone from Kresson. “Well, you could be, but I'm glad you aren't.”
“Dorian, I-” he stammered before coughing again.
“Will the cough go away in time?” Dorian asked, concerned.
Gavin nodded, gritting his teeth behind a fist he added, “they healed me too much. Some of the blood coagulated, healed right on to my lungs. Eventually, I'll cough it out.”
Dorian nodded, “good. Alexandria will need your support.”
Gavin tilted his head, looking curious.
“You know, when I beat her in the finals.” Dorian grinned.
Gavin laughed once before another coughing fit took him. Clearing his throat, he said, “thank you, Dorian. I didn't-”
“Don't mention it.” Dorian said, still watching the other combatant lining up for his match. They were talking, Dorian could hear them as though they were ten feet away or so, but he didn't pay it any mind.
“But, I feel I have to mention it, Dorian. I could have died if you hadn't ran out.” There was a hallow look to his expression, but Dorian just shook his head.
Originally he was going to say something along the lines of, “you would have done the same for me,” but in retrospect he probably wouldn't have. Instead, Dorain said, “no, you would have been fine. The sick bastard was cruel, and I wasn't going to stand by as one of my own had his life toyed with. Besides, if you keep mentioning it, everyone is going to think wrong of me.”
“Huh? How so? What you did was the kindest act anyone has ever shown me.”
“Well, you see, then everyone will be all kinds of confused when they find out I'm just a fat kid. I'm docile dough-rein. I'm selfish, lazy, and completely ill reputable.” Dorian smiled over at the other initiate. “See, so don't mention it. If you go around giving me a good reputation, I'll only disappoint. Whereas now, if I do a good thing, people are surprised.” Dorian twisted his hands upward, showing his palms and shrugging. He turned to the match that was starting.
As the match began and the duelists locked for the first time, Dorian heard Gavin mutter, “whatever you say, Dorian. Thank you.”
Dorian turned to the other boy, only to find he was gone. Balls. He's not going to listen, is he?
Dorian just smirked as he watched the two below. One of them would be facing Alex in a bit and hopefully losing thereafter.
The Metian was obviously the greater skilled between the two. The Kressian wasn't half bad though, and anyone could make a mistake when your heart was pounding so hard you thought your head might explode. There were several exchanges, of which Dorian expected there to be blood drawn. To his surprise, coinciding with a bit of pride over the gesture, two glinting points reflected the now dwindling sunlight below. They had both removed their pointed steel tips. It was a match of honor. Perhaps the pride had taken them too?
Back and forth they went, but the Kressian took more than he dealt. The Metian moved with alacrity and accuracy, he moved between the forms oddly but before his strike he would resume perfect posture. Textbook, one would say, each execution of each strike flawless.
There was a feel to doing a movement correctly. It was tough to synthesize it in training, the only way to get there was by way of sparring live, and even then, you weren't looking for that feel, you were trying to keep your head on right. Resistance was only part of it, it was about training your mind not to blank when you weren't sure what to do. After a time, it was instinctual. Dorian wondered how long this Metian, Kurtis Hunt, had been training to develop such deeply rooted instincts.
The Kressian was good. Damn good at that, his technique was flawless, but his tactics left much to be desired. He was prone to overextend himself from time to time, especially in his defense, which was where Kurt took full advantage. After a while, he realized that he was getting much further by keeping his opponent on his heels. So, he pressed, and pushed, closed gaps when they opened, and dwindled his opponents guard down until Kurt finally opened him up. When he did, he left the Kressian gasping for air.
Kurt was incredibly grateful for having run into the fellow the night prior. They had a few drinks and said they looked forward to beating the other on the sands. Inevitably, they had mutually decided that they would fight without luck, that skill should decide the victor.
After landing several direct strikes to the meat of the upper arms and legs, and not halfcocked strikes either, the man was near dead on his feet. When his opponent was breathing heavy and holding an arm out for Kurt to relent, Kurt took his pose. The man bent knee, prospering his weapon towards Kurt. Kurt didn't take it, instead, he held his guard and lifted the man's weapon with his own. The man stood, bowed, and left the arena with his chin held high.
The crowd didn't seem to like that much, but Kurt could give a damn. He was here to fight, not to kill. It was an unnatural thing, killing, Kurt didn't want to be involved in that if he didn't have to.
Grinning broadly, the announcer called for the first round of the semifinals while Kurt ran to his place. His last match for the day was against a very tall woman, Alex of the Monastery.
Dorian limped his merry way down the stairs. The Kressian conceding was pretty much ceremonial by that point, he had been whooped soundly. Figuring it wise to get down there and test his shorter weapon a bit, maybe check his mobility while he was at it, he made his way down as soon as he saw the other pausing to catch his breath. He prayed to any god that would listen that Alex come out all right.
Warming up was breathtaking. Most of his forms were shot, he couldn't lunge either unless he led with his weak leg, which felt more awkward than leading with his broken leg. Well, he supposed he only had to deal with it for one match. He hoped he'd mop the floor with the skinny one, with luck he'd face Alex in the finals. Seeing how the Metian moved, his burst of speed and his accuracy in his strikes, Dorian had a bad feeling in his gut about it and knew it would be a tough fight. That isn't to say that Alex would be any easier, just that he knew her tactics and could outmaneuver them. He watched as the bout began.
Kurt led strong, coming straight on with his blunted cap. He had reattached his pointed end, and hoped he wouldn't need to use it. Alex parried quickly, tried to counter but Kurt didn't leave her much room to do so. Oh, she could try, but that would leave her even more extended. Wisely, she didn't strike where she didn't feel the opening was good enough.
He had seen her a few times now, she was beautiful, for a giant. Giantess? Not as though it mattered, because despite her striking looks, she was tough as a mountain lion. Kurt came on again, this time throwing a feign with the back end of his staff before coming over the top hard, sending her off balance. He tried to optimize, but quick as a whip, she was back in a good position. Damn, she's fast.
Kurt kept moving though. Perhaps he could outstrip her, keep her moving, drain her down until more slips came. Perhaps, bait her?
He mimicked the feign again, swinging hard then backing off. She had incredible reach, and before he knew it, he was the one dancing back and defending. She overextended herself in a thrust, to which Kurt parried and spun. He glanced the back of her heel with the blunt end of his staff, but despite it making contact it wasn't strong enough to affect her in any way he could see. She popped back to a center position and circled him warily.
Dorian was completely captivated by the match. This was good. The two of them were different enough in their tactics that you could plainly see how they were moving the fight in their own direction, but the techniques employed on the way were a grand spectacle. He smiled, despite the pain in his shin and his need to lean on the gate. He cheered for Alex at the top of his lungs.
Is that traitor calling for my opponent? Kurt thought as he exited another round of exchanges. She had landed a solid strike against his dominant shoulder and had done so with the precision of a surgeon. His fingers were actually a bit numb, which meant she had found the nerve, though she hadn't hit it hard enough to seriously hinder him, it was enough to know what caliber she operated at.
Perhaps Dorian hadn't learned all of his tricks from Kurt, after all. Kurt smirked as he came in for another exchange. He feigned the back ended strike again, then came low this time. It had tripped her up a bit, no more than a half second, but when you were toe to toe against another person, a half second might as well be the difference between life and death.
His blow clipped past her attempted high parry, striking an ankle hard enough to send her back peddling with a limp. They had been at it for almost ten minutes now, and the sun was just about to dip over the horizon.
Kurt was beginning to grow worried when the ground beneath them lit up a faint green. Nice touch he thought as he circled.
“Would you wipe that fucking grin off your face!” Alex called at him.
“Not unless you agree to go on a date.” Kurt said, smiling broadly. He was only half joking, she was rather nice to look at. Not to mention they'd have a common interest, but he doubted she'd go for it.
She looked him over, then roared, taking to an aggressive routine that left Kurt on the back of his heels though he didn't back up. If he did, she'd have him far enough off his base that he might not recover.
He parried back and forth, landing strikes as they went. She had struck him once, a pointed blow to his upper thigh, though with the adrenaline and the crowd, it might as well have been a scratch. He had tagged her six times in the exchange to her one, and she had to be feeling it by that point. Kurt still hadn't taken a step back.
She backed off enough to give them some space, then screamed in pure frustration. Kurt knew it was frustration, knew it in his bones. He had that effect on woman.
Kurt moved forward, but swapping his pointed side for the blunted cap. When he moved to feign the strike like he had countless times now, she was ready. Her body moved without her say-so, exactly what he had been waiting for. Instead of a feign, he put all of his weight behind the strike. She had her staff in the wrong position to take a blow like that, the result was her staff flying out of her hands to rest on the arena grounds. Stunned, the crowd grew quiet.
Kurt held the point out to her neck. “Concede, for the love of the Gods.”
She glared hard at him and took a step in to point. Kurt backed it away, exclaiming, “are you trying to kill yourself. Don't be an idiot!”
The look on her face told Kurt that she was very intent on being an idiot. She stepped again, so Kurt followed. The next time she stepped, Kurt had had enough. He pulled back and she lunged for her weapon, so Kurt deftly swept her feet out from under her. If only I could reproduce that effect romantically.
Just as she turned her head to look at him, he struck her hard to the side of the head. Not as hard as he could, he could have brained her, but hard enough that she wouldn't be getting up any time soon. The crowd was quiet as Kurt leaned over to check for breath. Oh Gwendos, God of light, be merciful.
He bent down and picked her up. She was heavy for a woman, impressed, Kurt realized it was mostly muscle. The crowd began to boo and shout.
“What?!” Kurt shouted to the crowd, and they grew quiet. “Is blood what you want? Is that what you need? We in the Wilds have had enough blood in six months to outstrip a century on the sands. We in the Wilds remember what our Mother Metae taught us. Death is natural, killing to eat is natural. Murder is not! If any of you need that reminder, just head south! There's plenty there in my kingdom that can show you death!” With a snarl, he headed towards the monks that were already running out to the injured competitor.
As Kurt handed the unconscious woman to the monks, someone in the stands shouted, “mercy! Mercy from the king!”
The crowd erupted in laughter. Then slowly a chant started, a chant that was echoed most loudly by the Kressians. “King-Kurt-King-Kurt-King-Kurt” they called together. Kurt bowed with a bit of a flourish, then jogged off the sands back to the Metian's gate.
Unfortunately Bo was there. Kurt tried to ignore him, but Bo just couldn't leave well enough alone.
Chuckling, he said, “King Kurt.” He laughed uproariously for a moment. Kurt put his staff up and looked sideways at the lanky man. “Aye, that's what they're saying.”
“No worries, the burden of the crown won’t be yours for long. Once I'm done killing this one, you'll be next.” He smiled wickedly at Kurt.
“What the fuck is your problem, Bo? Huh?” Kurt began walking towards him, his blood was up and he wasn't thinking, but he was sick of this twisted bastard. “Daddy not love you enough? Did your mommy not breast feed you, huh? What in the fuck did we ever even do to you?”
Now Bo looked savage. “You've got no right. My family, my family, were the ones to start that outpost, were the reason you fucking Hunts have what you need. That is my heritage that your family stole, and I'll have it back before the end of this. And I'll spill every drop of blood I can on the way, so the swine remember their place.”
At first, Kurt just stared. All the while, the chant of “King Kurt” continued to echo across the stone walls. When his anger and grown too great, he let it out in bitter words. As he turned and walked away, Kurt said, “may my brother take his vengeance this day. May no price you pay be high enough.”
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Kurt heard Bo calling out to him as he walked off. “Your brother? No, you can't mean...” As Kurt took the stairs, he heard Bo laughing hysterically. Kurt thought that by the end of this match, Bo wouldn't be laughing quit so openly, if at all.
“Is she going to be okay?” Dorian asked the monks as they ran passed.
“Yeah, just knocked out. She put up a good fight though, yeah?”
“Yeah, yeah she did.” Dorian replied grimly.
Dorian satisficed himself with the knowledge that she had given it her all, even if her damn pride nearly got her killed.
When the time came, Dorian didn't know if he could stand another moment of, well, standing there. He needed to move, even if the needles of fire running through his leg throbbed every step, he had to. The crowd was chanting his name already, the rhythm became his gate, and the pace of his breath. His opponent was there, smiling?
This wasn't the twisted smile of a sick man, or the arrogant smile of someone about to thrash you. No, this was the smile of someone that knew something you didn't. Dorian scowled.
“Blessed be the blood that stains this ground, for it shall bring our redemption,” came the announcer. Dorian still didn't know who it was, which was really starting to bother him. Even a distant brother or sister would be explanation enough, but honestly, Dorian didn't recognize a single thing about him.
“Begin!” The announcer boomed, and the crowd erupted.
Dorian leaned heavily on his broken weapon, leaving it slanted, it became his pivot point. He let Bo do the stalking, if he had to turtle his way through a match, he figured, then he'd do what he had to.
Bo came in quick, lightning quick, but Dorian knew the signs. The twitch of a shoulder and twist of a hip before the strike. Even if the strike was faster than Dorian could follow, he could defend against it.
Parrying the blow, and nearly falling over, Dorian kept his eyes on his opponent. He stepped in, feigning a strike then stepped back out. He did this several times, glaring in between.
“No surprise you don't move much better as an adult.” Bo mocked before striking several times. Dorian's defense was solid, though his mobility was all but lost. He had to patient, wait for his opportunity...
“Come on then. You might look different, but under all that you’re still a fat fuck.” Bo said scornfully.
Dorian did his best not to be goaded into something stupid. “Coming from a human sapling, I'm not all too offended.” Dorian smirked.
“Arrogant shit, I'm glad your family will watch you die!” He shouted before he came on. Bo committed fully to the attack, everything about him a blur as he thrust forward, followed for a side swipe, moving in to a back ended thrust to Dorian's chest.
Lucky enough, it was the blunted end, but still, it hurt like hell. He stumbled back sucking air and nearly tripped for the pain in his leg. For a moment, when the attacks were coming in, he forgot all about it. Now that the moment had passed, it was all throbbing and searing agony.
What made it all worse was that Dorian's range was still very short, he could defend well enough, but Bo was cautious enough to keep to that middling range where he could strike at Dorian, but Dorian couldn't retaliate for it.
Bo was blathering something at him, but Dorian couldn't be distracted by his bullshit. “Would you just shut up!”
Bo moved, like a flash, he came in striking a diagonal swipe for Dorian's face. Dorian sidestepped it and winced as he put too much weight on his bad leg. When Bo followed the swipe by letting go of his staff with one hand and soundly punching Dorian in the jaw, Dorian went down in a heap. It wasn't that the blow was damaging, Ingrid hit harder than that, it's that the blow was unexpected. Having to take the blow, his leg buckled, and he found himself on the ground.
Blindly he thrust his weapon up in defense. He felt the first blow come down, but the second was a thrust that caught his side. It punctured deep, though how deep, he wasn't sure. Without a doubt, however, he was going to begin losing a lot of blood. Fuck.
Dorian rolled back to his feet, backing away a half step at a time once he got there. Bo came in again, laughing and saying something. The roar of the stadium was too loud to hear the other combatant, but Dorian knew he was throwing insults. Dorian defended the attacks, but heard Bo say, “I'll gut you here you pig, and your brother next. You hear me, Cook? Your Godless house will begin and end with you. The Hunts come next.”
Smoldering, Dorian kept his guard but said, “you don't know me. If you're half as dumb as you look, then you're mistaken. If you are as dumb as you look, you'll keep running your fucking mouth. If I wanted to listen to a stupid bitch prattle, I'd take your mother out again.” Oh, now who's running their mouth? Dorian chided himself.
“You,” he strode in, “fat,” swiping at Dorian, “disgusting,” Dorian blocked the first attack, but another back ended one came at his face. Dorian barely recovered in time, limping back. “Boy, I'll tan your mother's hide-” Dorian yelped as he had to move out of the way of another attack.
Bo was snarling now, Dorian had hit a nerve. “Maybe your mother wouldn't be so lonely if your father wasn't running about town, finding all the sheep.” Crass, Dorian. Come on, you can do better than that.
Bo’s breathing deepened, his pupils wide as his smile twisted into something ugly. The sneer dropped from his lips, leaving only raw malice. “I'm going to kill you, Dorian. Right here in front of these people, and they'll cheer me for it.” His smile was twisted with mockery, Dorian didn't like that. He was beginning to feel fear, truly and honestly. Having seen the cruelty of this man, Dorian didn't trust he'd simply lose here. No, if he lost, he'd die.
The fear felt like an off-key instrument in the distance. It was new and juxtaposed to the sensation he'd been pressed against. The countered emotion stood out in Dorian's head, and he remembered the Technum that surrounded the arena. The runes likely inscribed to the very floor he stood upon. He stopped resisting it, his will giving way. He knew what would happen when he did, the absolute loss of control he would feel. He also knew if he didn’t try another way, he would die. Dorian let go of his resistance to the influence and immediately regretted it. A moment passed, the walls caved in, and something else… something older… tried to take over. He fought with all the attention he could spare.
Kurt was watching the match so intently that he couldn't recall the last time he had blinked. Dorian's obvious limp and lack of mobility had impacted the match heavily. Dorian was left to the defensive as Bo took him apart piece by piece. Suddenly, Dorian surged forward. His limp was still there, but much less exaggerated.
They met and Dorian took the exchange by slashing open Bo's upper thigh. Dorian was bleeding heavily from a strike earlier, but now it seemed things were a bit more leveled. Bo didn't stall, however, and came in with a series of strikes that put Dorian on his bad leg more than once. Dorian didn't fall over, though he nearly had. As Bo moved in, their staves met oddly, lined up parallel to each other. As Bo twisted away, he came free with Dorian's staff.
Dorian fell to the floor, something was wrong. Dorian coughed and blood flowed from his mouth. Just as the cough ended, Bo wheeled, hitting Dorian on the side of the head with the blunted end of both staves. It didn't seem to have the same effect Bo was hoping for, perhaps the stick of a man wasn't strong enough to swing two? It didn't matter, because Bo just laughed out loud. Taking long strides away, he left Dorian swaying on his knees. Dorian was bleeding out of an ear now.
Bo strutted about in a broad arch, the crowd cheering as he did. Taking Dorian's staff, my staff, he placed a knee at its center. Pressing downward, the loud crack that sounded throughout the Colosseum made Kurt cringe. This looked very bad.
Breaking Dorian's staff, Bo tossed the two halves between them. Dorian saw double for a moment there and nearly blacked out. Now, however, he wasn't in the best of shape. His leg had shifted in a way it shouldn't, and he felt wet slick running down his face and neck. He felt heavy. Like the world really was resting on his back. He wanted to sleep, to close his eyes and let it go.
No, Dorian, not yet! Reach deep, for the love of the Gods, and do something! Anything!
Bo circled, and Dorian crawled for his broken weapon. He laughed watching Dorian for a bit, then turning to the crowd, he raised his staff and roared in triumph. Gloating, he pumped his raised arm a few times, reveling in the attention from the crowd.
Please, by the Gods, I can't lose this... I can't let them down, I'll do anything...
Desperate, Dorian searched his reserves of strength, only then realizing how exhausted his will was. He was resisting the pull of those runes, resisting still, even if he was affected by them he was still resistant. He felt the temptation, the pull of Technum, and knew the endless reserves of energy there.
Anything? He asked himself as he swallowed down his gorge. Surer than he felt, he answered himself. For Ingrid, for the possibility of a future? Yes... I’ll do anything.
Steeling himself, Dorian drank on that energy, filled himself to bursting and more. It was bile and wrath... and it was pure elation. Dorian felt good, entirely too good. By letting down his guard he had found more strength, sure, but the overflow of energy made him drunk on power. He tried to slow the onset of it, but like a dam breaking to the storm, he couldn't stop the flow. The last thing he thought before he was fully enthralled by the technum was, Gods, please, let me not regret this.
Just as Bo was beginning to turn, Dorian moved. He bounded once, and half-rolled half-collapsed over himself. The barrel roll wasn't the most elegant, but it worked. Meanwhile, Bo noticed the movement thrust out towards Dorian. He wasn't expecting the roll, though, and as Bo clipped something under Dorian's arm, Dorian was able to scrabble inward past the weapon.
Dorian wrapped Bo's upper arm, the one holding the spear, with his own. With the foot and a half long wooden staff, closer to a baton, Dorian stabbed for all he was worth at Bo's face. Dorian had grabbed it high, and used the steel cap much like he might use his fist. The first strike was brutal, caving in Bo's gritted teeth. Hanging on for all he was worth, Dorian fired back again and again.
Bo's mouth was streaming blood now, he was trying to say something but the lack of teeth and recent damage kept him from it. Dorian hadn't realized that he had left his bracelet on until that moment. Until the moment that Bo's blood leaked on to it.
As Dorian came back for another blow, his leg gave completely. He buckled, losing grip on his weapon, he fell forward. Having hooked Bo's upper arm, Dorian was leaning completely on Bo by this point. His head spun, he was exhausted, beaten, bleeding, and broken. And yet, his body moved, unbidden. Then he started hearing the Metian’s thoughts-
“What has he done to my mouth?! My mouth! My teeth!” Dorian heard in his head. The bracelet? Dorian wondered as he grabbed on to the back of Bo's head. He didn’t know what his body was doing, and was forced to watch.
With his one good leg, he arched his back as he sunk his hook deeper Bo’s arm. Then he knew what he was going to do, and for all his worth, fought against it. He also knew that if his body didn’t obey, he’d die. Knew, because the Technum of the Colosseum demanded it. His arms moved on their own, his body following a rhythm that wasn’t his. The pressure in his chest was unbearable, panic, revulsion, but also something else. Hunger. Satisfaction. The Technum hummed through him, drowning out every rational thought, demanding more, more, more.
He pulled Bo's face inward as Dorian tucked his chin, bashing Bo's face in and leaving him dazed. Light headed, Dorian dropped to a knee, pulling Bo down with him. Bo tried to pull back, but Dorian had grabbed his own arm with the one that had hooked onto Bo, locking them in position. Bo was stuck fast.
Bo surged harder and harder, Dorian only held his eye as he lowered, unable to look away. He reeled against the Technum, fought it, but his will was broken, he had given in and this was the cost. His guts twisted as he noted the desperation in Bo's movements, the struggle of a fish on land, flailing for all he was worth. Inch by inch they lowered together, Dorian could hear the man shrieking in his head. The shrieking changed as he spotted the metal spike jutting upward from Dorian's knee. Dorian lowered, forcing Bo down with him. Bo jerked violently against Dorian's grip, but there was no stopping Dorian’s bulk or his grip.
“Ri-conthee” he said, now crying. Though Dorian heard what he meant in his head, he didn't stop. He couldn't stop, he was a prisoner in his own mind. Cold now, his fire out, his exhaustion absolute. “I concede! I concede! Please, Gods, no, please! I concede!”
The softest shake of Dorian's head sent the message, and Bo jerked harder and harder as he came closer to his end. Now weeping openly, blood gurgling out of his mouth as he wailed, yet Dorian continued to lower his opponent's head down. He felt as the sharp point penetrated underneath Bo's chin. Felt the fear, the terror, then the pain as the spike drove through his mouth, then through the top of it. The shrieking and wailing grew until all Dorian could make out was the frantic buzz of a cruel man pleading for mercy.
Finally, the shouting in Dorian's head ceased. The last thing Bo saw was Dorian’s eyes. Not triumphant. Not vengeful. Just… empty. Then, the light faded, Bo’s body going limp. The jerks his body made were autonomous reactions, spasms, as the body didn't understand that the brain was dead. When it stopped convulsing, Dorian stared for a long moment. No, Gods, no! What am I? What have I become?
The suction sound that Bo's head made as Dorian lifted it off his knee made him want to vomit.
Dorian had kept the man's eye the entire time, he wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do either for Bo or himself. Still, it was done. All it cost was my humanity...
Kurt watched in horror as his little brother murdered Bo. Not that Bo didn't deserve it, and perhaps Dorian figured that if he didn't kill Bo, Bo would kill him. Regardless, it was disturbing in the extreme. Monks were rushing on to the arena, one checked Bo and shook his head. Four monks had to help Dorian get up and begin walking out of the sands, weaving back and forth as they did.
“Blessed be the blood that stains these sands! We have our second finalist, Dorian Hook!”
The chanting began then, the ominous chant that sent chills up Kurt's spine. “Do-re-an” they called, though Dorian couldn't be bothered. He was all too beaten at that point.
“With the finalists decided, our Grand Elder has an announcement. Please, hold for your dinner, it will be served promptly. Your holiness.” He gestured to the largest balcony, a thin ledge that extended from the balcony where a dais rested. The decrepit old man walked slowly there.
“That was the last fight I shall see with these eyes. Thank you, Dorian, for giving such a marvelous display. Please, a round of applause for the champion of our Monastery.” The crowd applauded.
"Tonight, I speak to the Gods one final time. Tonight, I pass on the gift that binds me to them, the essence of who I am. My successor shall inherit this bond, standing closest to the Gods, as I have. Do not judge him by his stature, judge him by his faith, his purity. He is the purest of the Valley, the only one deemed worthy. More worthy than even I was when I took this mantle.
Blessings be upon the House of Tanners. Blessed be those who sacrifice in the name of others. Blessed be our new Elder, Kennith Tanner."
The Grand Elder raised a frail hand. From the sea of monks, a boy stood. Small, barely more than a child, yet now a figure of reverence. Dressed in white, his face was pale, his expression hesitant. His image loomed across the Colosseum’s great displays, and for a moment, silence reigned.
After the cheering subsided, Kurt thought he heard something.
“Ken! No!” It was bestial, like the sound of a mother bear finding her cubs slaughtered. Out of the gate it came, from below on the sands. Was that Dorian?
“No! You can't have him! Keeeeeen! Noooo! Don't do-” It quieted. Kurt watched as Dorian walked, broken leg and all, with three monks on his back, onto the arena grounds. One had put a hand over Dorian's mouth. Dorian's eyes, Dorian's eyes were shining so bright that Kurt had to shield his own. Then abruptly, Dorian was on the ground and being dragged. One of the monks deftly stuffed a cloth inside the lining of his robe. What in the world?
Quena had been waiting too long. Long enough that exhaustion nearly claimed her. She could have practiced some Shaping, something to pass the time, but doing so might give her away. So she waited. Stifled her impatience. Forced herself still. Whatever it takes to be free. Even if it means being confined for now.
She waited. Nothing happened. After another ten minutes, the stone shifted again. This time voices were audible to her.
“Yes, my son. It will be all right. Come along, I need you to lay down right here.”
“Here? Like this?” The second voice was high, a youth. Her stomach churned.
“Yes, that's perfect. Now remember, when the light touches you, you must surrender completely. It is imperative, do you understand?”
“Uh, yes, yes Grand Elder.”
“Good.”
The chamber began to shake shortly after. Small modes of Shade started wafting through the air, spinning as it went. Then more. It didn't behave like Shade should, this was different. It moved in a way a Shade shouldn't, like it had a life of its own. Then, more blackness began to whirl around the chamber, she almost gasped if not for the quenching fear she felt. A brilliant light burst forth, so bright that she had to look away.
The laughter came. At first light and high-pitched, then deeper, twisted with something far worse than amusement. Quena dared a glance.
The boy in white stood over the old man now, grinning wildly, drool sliding down his chin. Then, without hesitation, he shot a vein of Kraken forward, puncturing the old man's skull. The splatter painted his robe red, the corpse sliding limply across the etched stone. The boy never stopped smiling.
The circular platform, etched with more intricate runes than she had ever seen, was beginning to lift and tilt. The body slid the length of it, blood smearing across the circular floor. She lunged forward pulling hard on her Shade and placing a crescent shaped wedge between the platform and the floor that supported it.
To her surprise, another bit of Shade rested at the other end. The shape was of a line that had bent upon itself and had twisted. Like a piece of string had been grabbed from its center and had been twisted three times.
“Ingrid?”
“Quena? By the Gods, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you have ascended?”
Ingrid looked perturbed about something, she always wore that brow heavy like that when she was worried, which she almost always was.
“Yes, and you should be at the Colosseum. What do you think-” Quena cut off as Ingrid moved to jump down. Leaping forward, Quena was able to grab her before she fell down. That would be bad.
“What are you doing?” Ingrid shoved at Quena, and Quena shoved back.
“You don't know you're doing, now get out of- Whoa!” Ingrid had jerked in such a way as to pull them both down. They hit the brittle floor together, the sparse padding of dust and dirt their cushion. The countless bones helped a bit, but they were all so brittle that she may as well hoped needles would break her fall. Then, it happened, exactly as she thought it would. The light of life surged forward, and every memory of every vessel to the Grand Elder flashed through her mind. Every last one. Twenty five thousand years of madness, of betrayal, and of pain.
They climbed out of the false Monastery in silence, but silence wasn’t enough to hold the weight of what they had seen. They had lived through the memories of it’s vessels, each person trapped in their own bodies, praying for death. She had felt every agony, every betrayal. The weight of twenty-five thousand years pressed against their chests, so vast, so unbearable, that they could do nothing but walk.
Ingrid wiped at her face, but the tears kept coming. Quena clenched her fists. Swallowed back the sobs. They had no words. There were no words for that kind of pain.
What happened, as Gia can only follow the path of life, it can't pass through non-living substances, such as stone. As she suspected, the crazy bastard didn't even want a single memory out that might subvert his long-term goals. He didn't want his secrets to be picked up by someone drawing on the local Gia.
The problem with holding it all together was that it formed a clot, a temporary shape, as if guided by an unseen hand. It could jump, in a way, provided it had somewhere to anchor itself. Even dust would do. There was no upper limit to how much Gia an organic compound could hold. After being contained for so long, it was restless. Desperate. Like something alive, it clawed for release, latching onto the first opportunity it found. The two girls had been that opportunity.
It had been Quena's intention all along, though as the memories passed through her mind, she became aware of how dire the circumstance was. There was indeed an entire world out there, and if this thing, Bacchus, got out, that world would be destroyed. She had one night left, she knew his plan. Likely, Ingrid was feeling the same thing.
As they approached the Colosseum, Ingrid finally spoke. “He knows something is afoot. You understand that, right?” Her voice sounded drained.
“Yes, but we're safe for the night.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Tonight, I either give myself something to feel or I end it.” There wasn't any humor in Quena's voice as she said it.
Ingrid flinched. She didn't turn, but Quena could feel the tension in her shoulders, the way her breath caught. After a moment, Ingrid whispered, “I understand.”
“After the last match, I think, that's the time to strike. I'll find you in the early afternoon. Do you know who will be fighting?”
“Dorian made it, though he was in bad shape before I left. He was the one to warn me of, well, whatever it was that happened.” Reaching a hand in to her tunic, she tossed Quena a memory crystal.
“I don't need it anymore.” Ingrid said. Without farewell, she began leaving. "Who's the other finalist?"
Ingrid stopped. For a long moment, she didn’t answer. Then, just before walking away, she murmured, “a Metian. Kurtis Hunt.”
Then she was gone.
Kurt stumbled through the halls, bottle of strong liqueur in hand. Why did these hallways get all wavy. It's entirely too much of a bother. Though, it is fun.
Kurt smiled drunkenly to himself as he finally came to his room. The halls were dark, but hunting at night had always been a simple transition for him, walking the halls in equivalent darkness was hardly an issue, sauced or not.
Opening the door, he nearly shit his pants. Really, if he had to at that point in time he certainly would have. Moder was standing there at the far end of the chamber.
“Hello, Squire. Tomorrow, you earn your valor.” He wheezed. He never looked good, but tonight Moder looked particularly bad.
“What's wrong?”
Moder waved him away. “I think he would have woken tonight, had he been whole, but they drugged him. He's fine, fully healed in fact, and I've have gone to him myself if I could manage. He doesn't remember me, not really. I've made contact in his dreams, but that's not your concern. This is, however.” Stepping forward, Moder placed Kurt's staff in front of his couch.
“My staff?”
“A replica. Listen, the last part of him will not meld unless he accepts it. As a last resort, make him. If you need to. Ideally, you make him aware of himself. If you can break through to him, somehow.” Moder spasmed, letting out a grating, painful sound. “That needs to be touching his flowing blood, whatever block he's put up its strong. Ohmer is ready, he is ready, I need you to get your Brother this last piece.” A long pause, “even if you must force him. Have faith, K-k-Kurt.”
Moder sauntered passed Kurt, his skin sagging. He wasn't a pretty thing to put his eyes upon, but tonight he looked so much worse. “Thank you, Moder. I wish that things were, well, simple.”
“Nothing is as simple as you, Squire. By the way, do be sure to pay heed to the lady in your washroom. She seems all too distraught.” Lady in my washroom?
“I'll do that. Wish me luck for tomorrow.”
Staring vapidly, Moder said, “I won’t wish you luck for the morrow. You won’t need it. I have faith in your abilities with a weapon.” He paused, then added, “but good luck tonight.” Kurt watched as the pale figure seemed to disappear in the darkness, not sure if Moder was coughing or laughing. Ass.
Closing the door and kicking off his boots, he headed towards the washroom. Unsure, he knocked once, then entered anyways.
Quena was there, tears streaming down her face. Kurt's face went slack, unsure as to what to do. He had never seen her cry.
“Quena? What's wrong?” She was on the floor next to a sink. He sat across from her, only then realizing he had the liqueur in his hand still. He offered it to her.
She looked at it, looked at him, then snatched the bottle. She turned it upwards and took several long swallows. “Oh,” she coughed, “Kressian.”
“They're not a bad lot.” Kurt shrugged. “You all right? I haven't seen you-”
She was shaking her head. “No, Kurt, I'm really not all right.” Her eyes shined against the light green lighting that ran through the ceiling.
“Can I do anything to help?”
“Help me up, for starters?”
Kurt nodded and helped her to her feet. He was a bit tired after he had been healed, but it wasn't enough to put him under. She collapsed into his chest, instinctively, Kurt held her.
“Come along, it's been a long day.” He murmured as he walked her out of the washroom. He set her on his bed, then moved a few pillows from the bed over to the large couch.
“What are you doing?” She asked, for some reason Kurt felt like he was doing something incredibly stupid.
“I figure you can have the bed?” It came out as a question. Why had it come out as question?
Taking a long drink, she put the stopper on. “There's a gentleman in there, somewhere, isn't there?” She asked, looking him over.
“Somewhere.” He said, trying to tell himself he wasn’t sure where this was going.
“Kurt, if you had any idea what I've been through tonight, you'd understand. Since you don't, I'll say it plain.” She stood, wobbling slightly, she walked to him. Holding his eyes, she leaned in and kissed him.
Stunned, he didn't move. “Quena, I can't, I-”
“I need to remember why it’s good to be alive. Or I won’t make it.” She whispered, her breath unsteady. Then, soft yet desperately, “Save me, Kurt. Just for tonight.”
For all the ways he had convinced himself that he didn’t want her, that he missed her sister instead, he scorned himself a fool. He saw that it would be unfair to Quena, and unfair to her sister’s memory, to hold such a belief. He had built a wall of steel in his mind and locked his emotions behind it. But the moment her words touched his mind, that wall rusted, cracked, and crumbled into dust. When it fell, the flood came.
A need surged through him, relentless, overwhelming. A need unlike any he had ever known. He needed her like a drowning man needed air, like a starving plant reaching for the sun. He needed to be her sky, the place where her warmth could rise and fall, the place where she could rest.
He needed the press of her thin lips, the curve of her elegant face beneath his hands, the warmth of her throat beneath his fingertips. He needed the sound of her gasp, needed to know that she reciprocated his want.
Her beautiful brown eyes glowed in the dim reflection of the Giastone lights, pulling him under, pulling him into her. Then, he was lost, drowning in the splendor of her touch.